Long Swooned Poems
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Not conscious of infinities blast Big Bang into reality our matter hurled
The Moira in our ancient past held us captive in this world
The blessings are the curses in every man’s situation
A profound secret and mystery to one another—the human condition
The secret suffering souls demand such solemn serious speculation
Yet the absurdity of LIFE in all its levity and evanescence calls for circumspection…
We create the stories and gods in hopes
And we assign such meaning to everything: stars, numbers, tea-leaves, and dates…
We create stories and gods to fill the voids find star- crossed loves and faith in the fates
In all the randomness—the beautiful randomness
We live, we love, we kiss, and we miss the beauty of chance
Kierkegaard a product of his time
his philosophical bent in line
had yet to be—to see—the reality—
of Camu or Sartre in thoughts evolution
one solution to counter mother Nature’s hostility or indifference,
We wield power over her mock her, scorn her, show her!
I am not the powerless weak little creature born to die at your whim—
No sin to go—my existence I control.
But halt! Oh! our Jungian collective-consciousness in the present soon awakens swooned by modern bards, agnostics and atheists even religious faith shaken
A light! A light! A revelation!
Because that which is unseen we know to exist
The unknown exists and because we don’t know it's purpose.. perhaps there is perhaps there is not one,
The horizon we see with our eyes does not exist in reality Physics concrete Science save us…
Our eyes set to betray us…
All this unknown doesn't mean we can't embrace the chaos
And we assign such meaning to everything: stars, numbers, tea-leaves, and dates…
Yet it all does exist with a beauty more lovely than any of Shakespeare's fates...
!!!CAVEAT LECTOR!!! This one's a bit naughty, dear readers...
You've heard of Snow White
And the story reported
Of the seven wee dudes
With whom she consorted.
Well, here's the actual skinny
On what really occurred,
Just another example
Of how stories get blurred.
The facts are quite shocking,
Some may be offended,
But read on, if you dare,
Discretion much recommended.
The dwarves toiled in a mine
And got dusty and sweaty,
Then they'd rush home to Snow,
Willing, able, and ready.
They played sex games with prizes,
Who was best, who the worst,
And poked good-natured fun
At who dropped or "popped" first.
Their sylvan life was idyllic,
The fringe benefits great,
One romp after another,
A real ménage à eight,
'til the vain evil queen
Asked her mirror, who said,
"Hon, your huntsman fibbed big time,
Fair Snow White isn't dead."
So she dressed herself up
As a hag and went callin'
With a web of deceit
She was sure Snow would fall in.
The crone gave her an apple
Her kind deeds to repay.
Snow took one juicy bite
And swooned dead away.
Now, here's one of the falsehoods
I'd like to correct.
You don't need to be Einstein
These dots to connect.
Snow didn't succumb
To poisoned pomme, as they say,
She was just plain exhausted
From "playing house" night and day.
The dwarves were sad but decided
A good thing was worth keeping,
It's not necrophilia
If the body's just sleeping.
Then Prince Charming found her,
Woke her up with a kiss,
And blah blah they lived
In storybook bliss.
What's never been told,
When Snow woke and was sitting,
She said, "No, not tonight, dears,
My headache is splitting!"
Then sotto voce, "Now, Prince,
Let me make you aware,
It's a significant fact
That dwarves are dwarves 'everywhere'.
Pay no heed to the rumors,
What they fail to instruct
Is that though the garden's been plowed,
This blossom's yet to be plucked."
Somewhere on this pretty planet,
There is a heart made of granite,
Indignation its pulse would take,
The soul’s machine fear'd trust too fake.
On righteous wings glory’s noose,
Hangs the head of war’s best muse,
Her eyes befit the worst of times,
The look, the stare defies all rhymes.
Reaching into forgotten tales,
History chose armored males,
Dusty tomes on hidden shelves,
Books in tongues for tiny elves.
Here’s to He who broke the bread,
A promise too many came instead,
Land so fertile flowers swooned,
Food to heal the people’s wound.
Abundance wreaks what dreams deny,
Riches breach thy neighbors cry,
Winds begin like soft whispers pass,
Fear the tempest that might amass.
No one heard the approaching storm,
The blind saw not the eyeless worm,
Man’s great cities it came to breed,
A pathos so hungry it began to feed.
The poor of mind hailed this time,
Its witless soldiers stuck in crime,
But this was no Christian phase,
Powerful waves, everyone pays.
Morning took hold, the sky was dark,
The bow was bent and knew its mark,
A book of facts, a thousand lies,
Verse so deep frozen beauty cries.
With thunder’s yoke rains wash took hold,
On tides ebbed out went all once old,
Upon spring flowers hope took turn,
Lime and ashes make death’s love yearn.
Once the deluge heavy airs broke,
Weeds and vermin went with a stroke,
Poison and bile, cancers two friends,
Fell to the grounds hungry amends.
Trees laughed loud and grew their hair,
Opulent green color’d the air,
The crowds were gone, the coast was clear,
Butterfly songs for all to hear.
Know you man’s hopeless devices,
Always waiting for a crisis,
To stick a sword in another’s heart,
Man’s most pathetic lost dead art.
Wolves and tigers follow no rules,
Never betting on prudish tools,
Blaming not the world as given,
Their jaws obey love’s laws arisen.
Eons ago a vow was made,
Years before words lost to trade,
The path before you poets know,
Only your heart can make life glow.
Pointed fingers hide three blind mice,
Beware of crowds and mob’s advice,
J’accuse writ large holds guilt away,
Thumbs up to She who holds her sway.
It was nearly without sound,
Save a pine-brushed mountain breeze
When I rose beneath fog's blanket
And stepped lightly through the trees.
In reverence of the aura there
Subdued in temperance;
Without a word, just in tears
I offered holy reverence.
Before me in this quiet place
A lake, in still perfection,
Lay without the slightest wave;
Heaven's mirror gave reflection.
As I gazed into the glassy lake
My soul and spirit swooned
With God's creation holding me
He healed my hidden wounds.
No greater ambiance nor scene
Has since renewed my core.
I found the Prince of Peace that morn
On a pristine mountain shore.
Next, the sun began to rise
And the Quakies clapped their hands
Creation birthed a brand-new day
And I began to understand:
God is a God of perfect peace
Who in countless ways can bless
Whether heaven sent or by a stream
He gives the seeker rest.
If your world has left you wounded,
"Come unto Me, sons and daughters"
God offers early morning grace
To bless beside still waters.
Psalms 23: 2 (KJV) “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures;
He leadeth me beside still waters.”
I had wings that flopped here and there
She had legs that spread in the air
She jumped for joy each time I swooned
Even I tripped all over by noon
She would lick all my wounds away
I the ugly swan would shyly play
This beautiful frog with her heart on fire
She heated the very essence of my desire
My wings were clipped from early on
If I tried to fly I only flipped and tumbled
All the other swans did laugh
So alone I was left to fend for myself
She the frog, ever so kind
She took all my pain right out of my mind
So an impulse struck me from I don’t know where
I kissed this frog, right then and there
A princess appeared before my eyes
She smiles and kisses me on the lips
A miracle of sorts did transpire
As we flew away on my wings of desire
Note: Ancient Proverb: A Malaysian Swan never flies far before he drowns
There was a polite society, in so many lands..It was regulated by capable hands
Sober people, would meet and discuss; at
Walks in the park.? Horse shows and such
Healthy larks..And there was that aspiration to rise even higher, maybe to a
Royal castle.? Where you might partake.!!!
Of an almost (holy fire?) Through rose tinted glasses some perhaps almost swooned at the thought.' Where all would be..? Almost perfection.! Only the best did
There resort.' Although there indeed were
Dungeons deep in their bowls they were mere relic's of past depravity..The betters had escaped all that now.' Here there would be awards given.' Amidst sighs of
Chiffon ans silks.' You could support wars
That spread democracy.? My how the imagination could be caught.' Up up up.!!!
Yet out all around , honest working people were being taxed into the ground.' While The climate god was fete'd..And damaged veterans took to tents, un-holy acts were being done its beyond sane Christian invent...'
She was an exotic, erotic beautiful peacock
Flamingly gorgeous feathers could not hide her mystique
We instinctively knew the hidden woman was a firecracker.
Green eyes gave me a come-hither look and I swooned.
He was a bandit; afraid of no bank tellers
Taking money out of the hands of the rich.
Darkly disturbing, hiding his humanness
I cringed when I saw him enter the bank.
She was a giggly snip, left over from the fifties.
Her hard shell had two perfectly cut out circles.
I knew she was uncomfortable; for it was not a good fit.
But I could do nothing to help her; it was the way she was made.
He is lying in a gutter, stepped on and smudged.
Wrinkled, with a turned corner so you can see a bit of blue.
Lots of white; one of his strings has been broken.
Pandemic is over; no need for him anymore.
As twilight now comes, we view a fair maiden,
flushed by the fire, in the hush of the room
after spending her day, where the heather was strewn
The stroke of the brush, shows a blush on her cheeks
She's enthralled by the flame, while a red setting sun,
says a farewell to the day, while she sits in her chair
as the light dwindles down
As she sits by the fire, while she waits for her tea
There is smoke in the breeze, and a whippoorwill song
There is dusk on the meadow, and dew on the hill
as the moonlight enhances the old window sill
She sits and reflects, in the warm amber glow
As the evening is fading, and the fire burns low
With Tabby, her cat, her one faithful friend,
Who sits in her lap, and purrs soft and slow
She will muse for awhile, dream of a far distant lands
She will dream of true love, as the brush strokes will blend
She will imagine her mate in the red fire's flame
while the stroke of the artist, will take us along
Transported by art, transported in rhyme
We are swooned by the paint, and the thoughts that have bloomed
that capture this girl in the room.
________________________________________________________
For Isaiah's Contest: Briton Riviere
Based on his painting :........"Fire-Fancies"
http://www.ebay.com/itm/Fire-Fancies-Briton-Riviere-Repro-oil-painting-/160376412482
Tuxedo Tom was a man who was insanely debonair.
Straight out of GQ, he had a manly, handsome flare.
The kitties in the alley were giddy beyond compare
When they smelled a whiff of Tom in the cool night air.
He did not have a big head, but he knew he was cool.
Another cat wanting to fight him was totally a fool.
Because Tuxedo Tom had been to fight-to-the-death school.
And he was not beyond scrapping with any kind of tool.
The kitties in the alley swooned when they heard his patter.
They started licking and primping, and stopped their silly chatter.
Tuxedo Tom was the goal, they would whisper through gray matter.
He batted a hundred every night; he was a terrific lovely batter.
Tuxedo Tom could be frivolous, but never cruel or mean.
He was the dapper debonair Tom, the one the world has rarely seen.
He had children up and down the alley, some were crazy, others keen.
They liked to strut beside their daddy, and his newest queen.
One night I stood and, breathless, swooned,
Beneath those hems of twilight's wound,
To dream and brood on what might be,
Should man but skirr that starry sea ...
To cast our hopes 'midst midnight sky,
Bright jewels of Heaven's bosom, ply ...
To plunge an ocean's suns, serene,
Through matter, dark and serpentine ...
To pierce the trembling veil of night,
Or plumb a maelstrom, bathed in light ...
To tease the cheek of morn to blush,
Then soothe the evening to a hush,
Wend soft, the mists, as angels dance,
So tasked to trim the great expanse ...
And wander, broad, that sapphire fold ...
Until the stars, themselves ... grow cold.
~ 3rd Place ~ in the "Poetically Me This Picture What Cha' See" Poetry Contest, James Edward Lee, Sr, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Any Couplet Written October thru November 2017" Poetry Contest, Laura Loo, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Early November Standard" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.